


Beyond the End

by August_Wright



Series: Beyond [2]
Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Angst, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-03
Updated: 2010-05-03
Packaged: 2017-10-09 07:06:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/84353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/August_Wright/pseuds/August_Wright
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>The characters of Duncan and Methos are not mine. The rights to them belong to Davis/Panzer Productions.</p>
    </blockquote>





	1. Default Chapter

**Author's Note:**

> The characters of Duncan and Methos are not mine. The rights to them belong to Davis/Panzer Productions.

The characters of Duncan and Methos are not mine. The rights to them belong to Davis/Panzer Productions.

This is a response to a Valentine's Day challenge to write a pure romance D/M, with no sex. I also submitted it to the Beyond the End competition, and I want to thank all the readers who commented at the BTE site; many gave me good pointers to make the story better. And I particularly want to thank BTE Judge #2, who took the time to give a very detailed critique. If I didn't use all her suggestions in this revision, it's only because my skills weren't up to it.

Beyond the End  
(previously titled Such Sweet Sorrow)

By August Wright

Duncan returned to Paris on a grey winter day in driving rain turning to sleet. He stepped carefully where water was hardening to ice, past abandoned sidewalk cafes, their empty chairs and tables slick and lonely. The usually cheerful sidewalk vendors and open storefronts spilling their wares out onto the walk like daily yard sales were no part of this Paris. This Paris lacked life and warmth, huddled under cover like Duncan in his overcoat.

His path took him to the bridge, just down from the looming cathedral, where he stopped and stared at the barge. Standing there was a self-torment, he knew, partly because the open expanse of the Seine chilled the wind from bitter to nearly unendurable, and partly because the ache in his heart grew to an agony at this first clear sight of a remnant of his world before it had shattered.

He'd thought he was ready.

An immortal presence splintered the numbness of his thoughts, and Duncan turned to see a silhouetted figure ambling toward him, coat swinging with his stride like a gunfighter's duster. Duncan felt no fear, only a strange detachment.

Detachment could be good. It kept him from hurting.

Tall, black, and broad-shouldered, the other immortal exuded confidence and mortal menace. He stopped just out of sword reach from Duncan and regarded him with the nobility of a warrior born. He seemed unaffected by the lancing cold, and his wolfish smile showed his eager anticipation. "I am Lou Sarnier," he said. A gust of the river-frigid wind faded the last word to near inaudibility. "Shall we leave this bridge for somewhere more private?"

He spoke in an accent of the West Indies, Duncan's tired mind noted. The name seemed nondescript enough, that calculating part of him continued, but what's in a name? His confidence combined with the fact that Duncan had not heard of him suggested that he might be fairly young. Or not, Duncan thought wearily. That could be an act intended to mislead.

The man carried himself bravely, and deserved to be treated with respect. Duncan rubbed his stinging face and decided he had no energy for posturing.

"I am Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod," he said dully, still leaning his forearms on the bridge rail, "and I don't want to fight you today."

Now would come the anger, the bravado, perhaps threats to attack right here in the open.

"MacLeod?" asked the other man. "The man who killed the Kurgan?"

Duncan winced. "No," he said harshly. "I killed that man."

God.

To Duncan's surprise, Sarnier laughed a jovial, appreciative laugh. "Of course. Good for you. Come on, let's cross our swords and test our skill. One of us is a better man. Is today not an excellent day to die?"

Duncan eyed the man. From most men the speech would sound ridiculous, but Sarnier delivered his performance, if performance it was, with genuine commitment. The grin on his dark face held an almost Celtic love of battle, and Duncan felt a nostalgic fondness for him.

"Perhaps it is," he said, and perhaps it was. His death today would harm no one, and would leave only a few loose ends to inconvenience others. "But I'd like some time to prepare."

The other man's expression grew thoughtful, and he stepped closer to Duncan and leaned his own forearms on the rail of the bridge. "If I agree, how will I find you again?"

Duncan pointed at the barge. "I will wait there for you."

Sarnier nodded. "I will come."

Duncan watched Sarnier stride away, bemused by his own request. Prepare how? The truth was, though death was an attractive end to his pain, Duncan didn't have the energy to meet a challenge today. It was too damn cold. He shook his head, amazed that he had avoided that challenge so easily. He was sure he couldn't count on it again, with Sarnier.

He wouldn't ask again.

Duncan considered the barge, its silent reminder of days when he had believed life could be good, and turned his steps toward a hotel.

Even the inside of the hotel felt dark and damp, the low wattage bulbs in Duncan's room too feeble to hold off the gloom. He considered turning on the television for the sound of human voices, but using the TV for company was a trick he'd learned from Richie. Cheerful voices seemed like a travesty anyway. Watching the rain, he fell asleep in the chair.

The next day, Duncan stared from the quay at his barge, imagining that if it had feelings, it would feel abandoned and bereft. Once it had held a home for Tessa, the light of Duncan's world. Gatherings of friends had warmed its insides with their laughter and celebratory toasts. Now, shut up and dark, it pitched with the choppy waves the Seine threw at it, huddled like the rest of Paris. Well, like everything else in Duncan's old life, it had to go. He sighed and leaped aboard.

Once inside, he found he had no heart for the necessary cleaning and unpacking. He removed the dust cover from the bed, found a wool blanket, Army issue from the Great War, and slept.

Two days later he had accomplished little. Paralyzed by lethargy, he had got no further than unpacking Tessa's photo albums, and now he sat for hours on the floor seeing his own face smiling at Tessa's camera. He looked a stranger to himself, this happy man with the love of a beautiful, talented, passionate woman. On some of the pages, Richie cavorted in Paris. He turned those pages quickly. Those few pictures of Tessa herself were where he lingered, and to what he returned, hour after empty hour, as the rain and sleet drummed above his head.

Awareness of an immortal jarred him when it came. He'd forgotten Sarnier. Duncan rose from the floor and found his katana. Much of his life, he thought, had been punctuated by sudden threats to halt the flow of his days, but today he felt no resentment.

Someone knocked upon the door. Moving with a curious sense of inevitability, Duncan opened it. Standing there, lashed by wind and water, was, of all people, Methos.

Methos. Someone from his past life who wasn't gone; not permanently. Duncan was almost startled, and, like his first sight of the barge, the reminder hurt. Duncan wished weakly that he could refuse this visit, but he hadn't the energy for a confrontation.

He stood aside and nodded as Methos stepped inside, dripping on the oak stairs.

"MacLeod," the intruder said, his smile holding irony, that frequent refuge of cynics. "Welcome back."

Human interaction felt alien to Duncan as he calculated his response. "I'm not ready ..." he said.

Methos looked the barge over, and Duncan saw what Methos must see: sheets and dust covers still shrouding the spare furniture, the mattress with no pillows or sheets, just a very old Army blanket. No lights, no fire, no food.

What was Duncan to do with him? He didn't want the man to stay. He didn't want to re-establish any old ties.

"I see that," said Methos. He looked back at Duncan with a question in his expression.

Duncan felt a great weariness. He didn't want to explain; he didn't even want to talk. He wanted to go back to sleep.

"Don't you call before you visit an immortal?" he asked, vaguely remembering how to chide and banter.

"Your phone's not hooked up."

True. Duncan had had no one he'd expected to hear from, and no one he'd wanted to talk to. He hadn't had the shoreside electrical power to his barge turned on either. He just couldn't seem to get to it.

"What do you want?" Duncan found he didn't feel like banter after all.

If Methos noticed the rudeness, Duncan saw no sign of it. From a deep pocket of his raincoat, Methos pulled out a paperback. "Return your book."

"You came to Paris to return my book?"

Methos shrugged.

Duncan stared at the book, remembering the day Methos had borrowed it. "The Tesseract," it was titled, and it had been Tessa's book. Methos had spotted it on Duncan's shelf and had commented that he loved things which fucked with the space/time continuum.

It seemed like eons ago - a time when Duncan had still had friends. Had still liked himself. Connor and Richie had both been alive, and not too long before that, Tessa and Darius and Fitz. Only Methos was a latecomer to Duncan's world, and back then even Methos had been only a friend, not the object of extreme suspicion he'd more recently become.

Methos was almost the only one left. The ultimate survivor. And Duncan didn't want anyone, anymore.

"Keep it," he said. "Everything has to go, anyway."

"Everything?"

"You have to go, too. "

At that, Duncan saw Methos sway in surprise.

"I need to get some work done."

Methos recovered, returning to his bland expression. "Want some help?"

"No. Thanks." Duncan was tired of Methos. He was tired of knowing the man so well he could read his slightest change in expression. He was tired of the hopes and illusions he'd once nursed about such an old immortal, and tired of being disappointed.

"Okay." Methos sounded neutral, a tone of voice he'd used often since ... well, recently. "How about we go out for a drink later? Joe's in town, too, of course."

"No!"

Realizing that his outburst required an explanation, Duncan continued. "I don't want to have anything to do with ..." he stopped himself before what he said became too hurtful.

"With Joe?" asked Methos. Then, when Duncan looked away, "or with me?"

"With any part of my old life. I'm really tired. I'm not going out anywhere."

_Please go away._

"All right, MacLeod," Methos said, his tone muted. "Good-bye."

To Duncan's relief, Methos turned and faced the elements, the open door admitting wind-blown rain for a few seconds.

As Duncan tumbled into bed, he noticed that Methos had left the book.


	2. Beyond the End Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Two

Chapter Two

He woke, he knew not how much later, to the alarm of an immortal presence  
coupled with a persistent knocking on the door. He didn't even bother to  
claim his sword; it might be his challenger or it might not. Who cared?

It was Methos, wearing the same trenchcoat and holding two bags of groceries  
from the local epicerie.

The other man shouldered his way inside, with, Duncan thought, not much in  
the way of invitation, but he paused at the bottom of the stairs.

"It's a little dark in here, MacLeod."

The sun had set while Duncan had slept. Too numb to be annoyed, Duncan  
reached dutifully for the light switch. The overhead glowed faintly when he  
flipped it on.

Methos frowned up at the light, the odd angle of shadows making his face  
look like the face of a stranger.

"What's with the light?"

"The batteries are dying."

Methos turned and set the bags on a sideboard.

"Can you recharge them?"

"They have to be replaced."

Methos regarded him for a moment in silence. The barge rocked in the waves  
and the wind beat sleet against the portholes.

"Why are you here?" Duncan asked.

"I brought the drinks. You said you didn't want to go out." Methos withdrew  
some bottles of beer, one of red wine, and one of brandy.

Duncan stared at the bottles dully, imagining the cold, friendless party it  
would be to open a good brandy in this damp, grey barge. He turned away. "I  
don't want them," he said.

Behind him was silence but for the sound of the brandy bottle in Methos'  
hand thumping onto the wood of the sideboard. Duncan closed his eyes and  
listened to the wind.

"I heard that Connor died," Methos said in a quiet voice. "I'm sorry,  
Duncan."

Dammit, couldn't he be left in peace? Searching for meaning in Connor's  
death over drinks was the last thing Duncan intended to do.

"I don't want to talk, Methos."

"Sure, but wouldn't you like to get warm? It's freezing in here. Just a  
sec." With this bemusing non sequitur, Methos disappeared out the door, the  
wind's keening rising and falling as the door opened and closed.

Duncan blinked, but he dismissed Methos from his thoughts, glad to be alone  
again. Wait. What had he said? "Just a sec?"

The intruder returned, hair and clothing plastered with rain, carrying an  
armful of chopped firewood covered in clear plastic. "Here we go," Methos  
said, stripping the rain cover from the wood in his arms and opening the  
door to the fireplace with his foot.

Duncan frowned at the threat to fill the room with light and warmth. "Stop,"  
he said.

Methos gave him an innocent look and smiled. Damn if Duncan couldn't read  
even the man's deceptions. He knew this immortal too well.

"I want you out. I don't want anyone."

The smile faded, and with it, pretense. Methos set the wood down in the bin,  
and brushed bark and splinters from his jeans. "Come with me," he said.

Duncan shook his head.

"Let's go to Joe's."

"I'm leaving, Methos. I'm leaving my old life. I've only come back to sell  
the barge. I know Joe will follow me, but I won't look for him. Eventually  
I'll have a new watcher. I'm leaving it all."

Methos' expression was hard to see in the shadows. "Do we mean so little to  
you, then?" he asked.

Duncan closed his eyes. "I don't want to debate it. Just go."

"All right." Methos' voice sounded choked, of all things, but when Duncan  
opened his eyes, the other man looked normal enough. His expression, he  
could now see, was one of the dull resolve Duncan remembered from that dark  
time with Kronos. Damn, but he knew this man too well.

"Then come and say good-bye," Methos said quietly.

"I can't leave."

"Why not?"

"I'm meeting someone."

"An immortal?"

"It's not your concern."

Methos gazed at Duncan, dismay showing in his face. "Do you plan to lose?"  
he asked.

"Don't be ridiculous. Please go. And take your things." Duncan indicated  
the sideboard holding the groceries and the drinks.

Methos looked around the barge, his glance lingering on the few items of  
furniture, the windows, the weak light. When he looked again at Duncan,  
Duncan thought he saw his eyes glitter. "Good-bye, Duncan," he said, his  
deep voice mournful. "I love you."

Methos met Duncan's gaze for a moment, as if hoping for a response, but  
Duncan looked back stony-faced. What an odd thing to say, he thought, but  
Methos was an odd man. At least he would leave now, wouldn't he?

Methos dropped his gaze, and turned to go, ignoring Duncan's request that he  
take with him the unwelcome items he had brought into Duncan's home. He  
stumbled on the step, and then he was gone.

Duncan had barely breathed his sigh of relief before the immense sense of  
loss and anguish which the need to deal with Methos had held back, crashed  
over him again, even worse than before. He sat on the floor and wished he  
could weep.

Daylight woke him from his uneasy sleep. Numb now with chill, Duncan picked  
himself up from the hard floor. The wind and rocking had stilled, leaving  
dawn to break quiet, white, and brutally cold. He made his stiff way to the  
head, trying to recall his dream. He thought it had been a good one, for  
once, filled with living friends and no responsibility for anyone's death.  
Anyone. Duncan rubbed his knuckles against his eyes fiercely. What friends  
might that be? Future friends, perhaps, in his new life. It seemed he could  
count on one hand his remaining living friends.

Methos, for one. At least he'd never been responsible for Methos' death, he  
told himself. Memories flashed before his sleep-squinted eyes - refusing  
Methos' offer of his head, managing not to kill him on holy ground when in  
the thrall of the Dark Quickening, desperately calling to Cassandra to spare  
him. Not to mention - the muscles of his mouth twitched in a faint memory of  
a smile - letting him live after that stunt with Gina and then the Ming  
vase.

It hurt so much, that Paradise lost. Duncan's eyes stung again. He groped  
blindly for the toilet flush, and let his mind go blank listening to the  
rushing sound.

_I love you. _Methos' words of the previous night played in his head. What  
had he meant by that? What an odd thing to say.

Duncan was dimly aware that his thoughts had nothing of their usual  
sharpness and speed. It was so hard to think about things.

Water spread across his feet, and Duncan looked down at a growing pool of  
toilet water on the floor. For a moment he stared, frozen, then he stepped  
back, out of the wet, and found the water shutoff valve. He knew what the  
problem was - he hadn't properly pressure flushed the barge's sanitary  
system after its long disuse. He'd have to go topside and open the auxiliary  
valves.

His great weariness welled up then, and he considered just ignoring the  
water and curling back up with the Army blanket and Tessa's photo albums,  
but his distaste at the situation won out, and he even remembered to put on  
his coat before going on deck.

The cold was scarcely any worse outside the barge than it was inside, now  
that the wind and sleet had stopped. The metal of the primary aux valve was  
so cold on his hands that it burned. Duncan gripped it brutally, savoring  
the pain, and wrenched it open.

Nothing happened. Where there should have been a gushing of water, there was  
silence. Duncan's spurt of focus evaporated and he sat down heavily, staring  
at the treacherous machinery. Then, as he stared, unseeing, the hairs on the  
back of his neck prickled and he knew the sudden sensation of being watched.  
He knew from long familiarity that the surface of his large propane tank was  
reflective, and he automatically moved his gaze to its image of the quay,  
the wall behind it, and the bridge beyond. There was the figure, huddled  
against the cold, mostly in shadow.

Joe, he thought first, then Sarnier, and then, when the figure made a slight  
movement and Duncan recognized even the small nuance of body motion, he knew  
the man to be Methos. Duncan hung his head in his hands. Methos, again. A  
backed up toilet. An empty auxiliary tank. It was too much to deal with. He  
stayed like that for long minutes, hearing the growing sound of Paris  
traffic as people rose and went about their lives like people always had and  
always would, cruel people who didn't know that his world had ended, and who  
acted as if nothing were wrong.

He managed to be amused by himself. He'd known enough grief to know that he  
always felt this way - that the rest of the world should end when his did.

Duncan found himself on his feet and then on the concrete quay. Very few  
steps brought him to within sensing range of the other immortal - Methos  
must have made delicate measurements of how close he could safely stand.

At least the awareness didn't fade; Methos wasn't fleeing him.

They met beneath the stone arch of a bridge older than Duncan - the same  
bridge under which, in another lifetime, Methos had offered Duncan his head.  
Methos had traded his raincoat for a long wool London Fog trenchcoat, but he  
wore no hat or gloves, and Duncan was reminded of the drowned rat look he'd  
had that other day beneath this bridge. This time, Methos looked frozen, his  
skin pale but wound-red on his cheeks, ears, nose, and lips. His short spiky  
hair actually glistened with frost at the tips, and his eyes were sunken and  
bruised looking. The cold in the bridge's shadow was so intense it felt malevolent.

They regarded each other in silence, at first.

"What are you doing?" Duncan finally asked.

"I hoped to see you do your morning katas," Methos answered with no  
appearance of shame.

Duncan frowned. "Why?"

"If you have to face a challenge soon, you should stay in shape."

"So you're ... what? Spying? _Watching_?"

Methos shrugged.

Duncan narrowed his eyes. "Guarding?" he guessed.

The flicker of Methos' eyes answered him.

Mary and all the saints.

Duncan whirled and stormed back to the barge. Once inside, out of Methos'  
sight, he didn't know what to do with his anger. He kicked the wood bin,  
scattering the firewood.

Anger. How long had it been since he'd felt anything but grief? Trust Methos  
to piss him off. Duncan tapped his forehead gently against the rim of a  
porthole and a coughing sound escaped him, which could have been a laugh or  
a sob.

Still riding the surge of energy born of anger, he threw open the barge door  
and returned to the bridge, half fearing that Methos might have left. Methos  
still stood there, a stone figure like the bridge itself. "I told you, I'm  
leaving," Duncan said, "I have to do what I have to do."

"I know," Methos said. "So do I."

Duncan didn't try to figure that statement out. He had another problem. "You  
also know," he said, "that I can't leave your sorry ass out here like this."

Methos' stony face, sculpted like a Greek statue, twisted into a living  
smile which gave Duncan an odd jolt of recognition, as if Galatea had come  
to life before his eyes. "Well, I was hoping," Methos said.

Back in the barge, despair gripped Duncan again. He still didn't know what  
to do with the intruder in his world of grief, and he was in no state to be  
a host. Beside him, he saw Methos' gaze take in his gifts of food and wine  
standing rejected on the sideboard, and the cord of firewood scattered on  
the floor by a cold hearth. Duncan expected Methos to make himself at home-  
he'd certainly done so before - but the other immortal stood withdrawn, pale  
and somber in his long coat. His expression was dull and bereft. Cold,  
probably. The man needed to warm up, but Duncan felt no strong obligation to  
such an unwelcome guest.

"Make a fire, if you want."

"All right," said Methos, but he didn't move.

"Whatever," Duncan said. "I'm going to sleep." He wrapped the blanket around  
himself, and collapsed on the bed, coat and all. His last visual image  
remained imprinted, in negative, on the inside of his eyelids; Methos'  
silhouette - a dark, brooding, guardian angel.


	3. Beyond the End Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Three

Chapter Three

He woke to a transformed barge. Duncan blinked in dull amazement at the flickering hearthlight on the barge walls. Warmth, weak but determined, spread through the empty spaces, pushing back the chill air pockets to the farther corners. Firelight twinkled on the cedar and mahogany surfaces of his sparse furniture, now freed from their pale dust covers to add cloth and color to the home. Most astonishing of all was the aroma of something delicious to eat floating in the air, and the "table" made from a brocade cloth spread upon the floor, set with his china and glassware filled with wine.

He raised his head, looking for the immortal he sensed. A thumping noise from the head drew his attention, and soon Methos appeared, barefoot and wielding a mop, the arms of his sweatshirt and the legs of his jeans rolled up. Duncan braced for a smart remark, but Methos met Duncan's gaze with wariness, and looked away.

A new sensation shifted in Duncan's chest, and he realized it was a slight lessening of the pain he had been carrying. Bemused, he let the silence grow between them, watching as Methos wrung out the serpillere, the rag at the base of the mop, put the mop and pail away, turned off the stove, sat down before the fire, his back to Duncan, and put up his cold-reddened feet to the hearth, all without looking at his host.

"Your toilet was backed up," he said, when Duncan failed to break the silence. "I filled your auxiliary tank, but your batteries are quite dead."

Duncan studied Methos' defensive posture with a form of the strange detachment which grief brought, but this detachment was more lucid, sharper. He thought suddenly that while he knew this man so well, he also knew him not at all. He stood, grateful for the warmth which allowed more relaxed movement, and pulled the wool blanket from the mattress.

Methos glanced once at him sidelong, then returned to reading the fire. "I tried to have the electricity turned on, but your credit with EDF-GDF isn't so great. Forget to pay some bills?"

Duncan walked up beside Methos, knelt beside the lanky jean-clad legs, damp with the water from his recent chore, and began wrapping them with the blanket.

"What ... are you doing?"

Duncan almost smiled at the sound of confusion in Methos' voice. He finished by gently wrapping the bare feet and tucking the blanket beneath them. "You must be cold," he said, and stood to survey his handiwork.

The wide-eyed look Methos gave him was filled with the pain of apprehension. "Duncan?" he asked.

Duncan turned to stand at a porthole, looking out into the winter. "I'm leaving, you know. I only came to sell the barge."

"So you said. I've found you a buyer."

"That was fast work."

"You've slept a long time."

"What are you cooking up, Methos?" Duncan asked.

Methos' silence was more than lack of response; it was lack of movement, lack of breath. Duncan turned to see him sitting perfectly still, staring at Duncan. "On the stove," Duncan added, gently.

Methos' features relaxed and his chest rose in a deep breath. "Tom Kai Gai," he said.

So that was the aroma. A delicious Thai soup. Rich coconut milk married with succulent lime, ginger, and a delicate fish sauce. Also strips of ... oh no.

"Chicken soup?" he asked.

"For the soul," Methos agreed, smiling hesitantly. "I'm sure your body's fine." Then he did an odd thing. He blushed.

Duncan nodded as the burden of his pain shifted again, becoming still lighter. He looked back out the porthole. He breathed like a drowning man taking his first blessed lungful of air. But he needed another breath; he wasn't on shore yet. "What did you say? The other day," he asked.

He heard movement behind him, and caught the reflection of Methos rising to his feet, the blanket falling around his ankles. Fight or flight. Duncan knew this man so well, he thought fondly. He turned around, still not able to smile, needing the answer like the lungful of air.

"I shouldn't have said it. It was poor timing." Methos said.

"You didn't mean it?" Duncan felt himself standing on a slippery precipice.

Methos hesitated, studying Duncan uncertainly. "I ..."

Duncan watched breathlessly as Methos, invulnerable to ages but vulnerable to heartbreak, stepped bravely into the abyss of risk. "Of course I did. Every word."

Duncan's dry eyes watered. "I can't love myself," he said.

Methos' face twisted in sympathy, and he moved his hand slightly, toward Duncan. "I can. I can love you enough for both of us." But he did not move.

Neither did Duncan. Something restrained him. Before him was comfort, love, and warmth, but if he accepted those things, he'd betray so many ghosts. He didn't deserve love.

"I'm ... leaving," he choked. "You found a buyer."

Methos nodded, his hazel eyes brimming over, too. Now he held out his hand as if to a man threatening suicide from a ledge. "I did. His name's Adam Pierson. Or, it used to be. He'll pay your price, whatever it is."

Duncan took a step and stumbled, suddenly weak-kneed. Methos met him, enfolded him in strong arms and steered him to the low futon couch. There, Duncan rested his head against a bony shoulder, struggling to leave behind the ghosts of grief which clutched at him. Methos stroked his back, saying soothing words, not all in any language Duncan knew.

The presence of another immortal was knife-sharp. Both men gasped, and then Duncan half laughed. "Sarnier," he said.

From outside the barge, Sarnier called "MacLeod!"

Duncan stood and rubbed tears from his face.

Methos looked panicked. "Duncan don't! We can swim away ..."

Duncan shook his head, feeling euphoric. May God help Sarnier; he would need it. "I can't, Methos. That's not me."

Methos looked aghast. "You were leaving that life! Be someone else! Try being someone who would run away!"

Duncan bent down, and, putting one hand under Methos' chin, he captured the man's lips with his own. Methos stilled beneath the kiss and closed his eyes as if all his focus was on that luscious point of contact. Then Duncan pulled away, the smile on his face feeling like cracking clay, and Methos' eyes flew open.

"Duncan, I'll lose you if you insist on being you! Don't do this!"

Duncan found his sword and his coat. "I'm back, Methos. You may lose me someday, but I swear to God, it won't be today. I hope Sarnier thinks today is a good day to die."

With that he mounted the few stairs, buoyed up by elation.

The fight was glorious and mythical. Sarnier joined swords joyfully, as did Duncan. Two warriors, contenders for the ultimate prize, master swordsmen, they goaded each other to ever-higher levels of displays of skill. Duncan had seldom been so challenged, in an old-fashioned test of pure skill, eschewing deceit as something beneath both contestants. Duncan never doubted  
the outcome, for he could see a future to live for, and in the end, he won. Duncan couldn't remember the last Quickening he'd taken which had been pure pleasure and no pain. It left him weeping with gratitude for Sarnier, for the gift of his life and of his death and of his joy.

He found Methos' shaking arms around him. "Take me home," he said.

And Methos did.


End file.
